dy lost much of its old delicacy. There even seemed a
justification for Helen's description of weakness in his face--in certain
lights it _was_ weak. He seemed busy and preoccupied about his
affairs, and almost under the impression that Miss Winchelsea had come for
the sake of Fanny. He discussed his dinner with Fanny in an intelligent
way. They only had one good long talk together, and that came to nothing.
He did not refer to Rome, and spent some time abusing a man who had stolen
an idea he had had for a text-book. It did not seem a very wonderful idea
to Miss Winchelsea. She discovered he had forgotten the names of more than
half the painters whose work they had rejoiced over in Florence.

It was a sadly disappointing week, and Miss Winchelsea was glad when it
came to an end. Under various excuses she avoided visiting them again.
After a time the visitor's room was occupied by their two little boys, and
Fanny's invitations ceased. The intimacy of her letters had long since
faded away.

XXV.

A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON.

The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly
in spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while he was still on the
platform I noted how ill he seemed. He dropped into the corner over
against me with a sigh, made an incomplete attempt to arrange his
travelling shawl, and became motionless, with his eyes staring vacantly.
Presently he was moved by a sense of my observation, looked up at me, and
put out a spiritless hand for his newspaper. Then he glanced again in my
direction.

I feigned to read. I feared I had unwittingly embarrassed him, and in a
moment I was surprised to find him speaking.

"I beg your pardon?" said I.

"That book," he repeated, pointing a lean finger, "is about dreams."

"Obviously," I answered, for it was Fortnum-Roscoe's _Dream States_,
and the title was on the cover.

He hung silent for a space as if he sought words. "Yes," he said, at last,
"but they tell you nothing."

I did not catch his meaning for a second.

"They don't know," he added.

I looked a little more attentively at his face.

"There are dreams," he said, "and dreams." That sort of proposition I
never dispute. "I suppose----" he hesitated. "Do you ever dream? I mean
vividly."

"I dream very little," I answered. "I doubt if I have three vivid dreams
in a year."

"Ah!" he said, and seemed for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Your dreams don't mix with yo